


When you hold me, I'm alive (we're like diamonds in the sky)

by leo_fitz_is_a_gryffindor



Series: We're On Each Other's Team, a FitzSimmons series [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, FitzSimmons - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Moments, OTP: The Whole Damn Time, pre-season 3, season 2 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5369180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_fitz_is_a_gryffindor/pseuds/leo_fitz_is_a_gryffindor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re okay,” she whispers in a trembling voice against his ear, her hand coming up to gently stroke the hair at his nape. “You’re all right.”</p>
<p>Fitz comes back from his mission during the season 2 finale. In the following days, FitzSimmons share some private moments and slowly find their way back to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When you hold me, I'm alive (we're like diamonds in the sky)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., nor any Rihanna song—although I advise you listen to Josef Salvat's cover of Diamonds.

_“I knew that we’d become one right away_

_(Oh, right away)_

_At first sight I felt the energy of sun rays_

_I saw the life inside your eyes”_  

— _Diamonds_ , Josef Salvat

* * *

 

**1.**

Fitz knows the adrenaline is wearing off when he starts feeling an excruciating weariness settle in each of his limbs. He almost can’t believe they made it out in one piece. Well, _almost_ in one piece, he thinks bitterly as he chances a glance towards Coulson, who is cradling what’s left of his arm against his chest.

They should arrive at the base in a couple of minutes, and although he realizes that there might have been dozens of casualties amongst agents—possibly amongst his friends—during the fight, all Fitz can focus on is Jemma and what she said, what she said, _what she said._

_Maybe there is._

His thoughts get all jumbled up, trying to pierce her words and decipher their true meaning, but then they are finally _there_ and she’s suddenly _here_ and his mind goes blank. Her posture oozes exhaustion and her features are tired, but there’s a fiery brightness in her eyes when she spots him that makes her seem more alive than ever.

She’s launching herself towards him and they’re meeting in the middle before he even realizes he’s moved. Her arms wrap around his neck as he envelops her, probably pressing her to him too closely considering their states and his Kevlar gear but _who the hell cares_.

“You’re okay,” she whispers in a trembling voice against his ear, her hand coming up to gently stroke the hair at his nape. “You’re all right.”

Fitz tightens his hold before nuzzling the side of her head, a small grin slowly stretching his mouth. “I was _careful_ ,” he replies purposefully.

Simmons almost imperceptibly tenses in his embrace, drawing away from him just enough to meet his eyes. Fitz’s mesmerized for a couple of seconds, taking in the bewildered expression on her face, before his gaze travels down to her slightly parted lips. His vision narrows—

“Ahem.”

Simmons jumps at the reminder that other people are there as well, her cheeks rather pink. Reluctantly letting her go, Fitz turns around to see Coulson staring at an imaginary point about two feet above their heads. _Dammit_ , he thinks begrudgingly. _If the man interrupts one more time, I swear I will personally chop off his other hand._

“I’m really sorry to bring that up, but could you please try to mend this for me?” Coulson asks casually, waving his injured arm at Simmons. “I ordinary wouldn’t mind waiting, but…” he shrugs, eyebrows raised. “It kind of hurts?”

It only takes Simmons two strides to get to the Director’s side, her mouth agape at the sight he offers. “Goodness,” she exclaims. “What happened? Actually, don’t answer that,” she adds on second thought. “Just go to the med lab, and I’ll see what I can do right away, alright?”

Coulson nods, mouthing a thank you at her and offering Fitz an apologetic glance before heading in the general direction of the lab. Simmons starts following the older man, but stops in her tracks when she passes by Fitz. She seems to be debating with herself, and he can pinpoint the exact moment when she comes to a decision. Catching Fitz’s wrist between her slender fingers, she pushes on her toes and presses her lips to his cheek, lingering there before pulling away and locking eyes with him.

“I’ll find you later, okay?”

It doesn’t really sound like a question, but Fitz is too dazed by her unexpected gesture to even notice. “Yeah,” he replies faintly.

Simmons offers him one of her brightest smiles, allowing her thumb to skim across the soft skin of his palm for a second before dropping his hand and exiting the room. Fitz remains frozen to the ground, not sure what just happened.

“Nicely done, Turbo,” booms a deep voice somewhere behind him, in a tone full of mischief.

The familiar banter does the trick, and Fitz spins around to be met by the cheerful face of Mack. “Ha, cu’ me some slack, man,” Fitz complains playfully, unable to keep back a smile.

 

* * *

 

Between cleaning and cauterizing Coulson’s wound, checking on Bobbi’s injuries and taking care of the battle’s numerous casualties, three hours have flown by before Simmons realizes it. Her mind and body are both in overdrive—she craves a bed so much it physically hurts—but all she can think about, despite the blood on her hands and the ache in her bones, is _Fitz_.

It kind of amazes her, how she can’t spend two minutes without her thoughts drifting to him since she got back.

The first few weeks, meeting his eyes full of reproach and hurt and _betrayal_ was so agonizingly painful that she’d have the taste of vomit in her mouth every time she remembered the way his face used to light up whenever they were together. At that time, she was convinced he would never forgive her for damaging him; she’d managed to half persuade herself that her losing him was worth him being alive.

However, the past two weeks have been different. Now she doesn’t feel the need to throw up anymore when she thinks of him. Now there’s a new kind of pleasant desperation, a newfound longing that roots itself low in her belly, something more powerful and disarming that anything she’s ever felt before. Now she is curious, intrigued about things she had never even contemplated.

Now she almost doesn’t hate herself anymore.

Simmons doesn’t realize her feet have taken her to Fitz’s bedroom until she’s facing his door. She hesitates, wondering briefly if he’d welcome her in his territory again. But then she remembers the look in his eyes when she’d said what she’d been thinking for a while, right before he left with Coulson the day before. She remembers the intensity of his gaze, the shift of his body towards hers, the hopeful bewilderment painted on his face.

_This is silly_ , she thinks as she uses the doorknob and lets herself in.

Fitz’s room is a mess, which reminds her fondly of another room in another dorm, almost a decade ago. His stuff is scattered everywhere, from small tech devices to badly worn engineering magazines. The only difference is that Kevlar and combat clothing have replaced shirts and jumpers on the floor, but the sight is soothing nonetheless.

Simmons’ heart swells when she spots Fitz, sprawled out on his bed and deeply asleep. He got rid of his tactical gear in favor of a pair of dark jeans and an old grey T-shirt instead of pyjamas, which must mean he was waiting for her until he ran out of strength and collapsed. Poor thing.

For a minute, she debates with herself whether she should leave him alone and go to her own room, but something stops her—a wave of affection, nearly overwhelming her, for the boy with whom she shared ten years of her life. She missed him so, _so_ much that she can’t believe she risked losing him in the first place.

Fitz groans in his sleep, breaking her out of her trance. She moves towards him like a ship towards the harbor, like he is her only safe place amidst a storm—he is, _God_ , he is. Silently removing her shoes, Simmons disposes of her cardigan before carefully crawling on the bed, trying not to disturb the engineer.

With slow, cautious movements, she eases on her side and scoots closer to Fitz, softly aligning her body with his, pressing her curves to his edges and nestling her head against his shoulder. Of their own volition, her arms reach out to him, one of her hands gently travelling across his flat stomach before settling just above his hip.

She closes her eyes just as she feels him stir.

“Jemma?” he asks in a sleepy voice.

Simmons hums contentedly, not really eager to engage in a conversation while she’d rather enjoy the warmth emanating from him.

“Hey,” he tries again, speaking quietly as to preserve the peculiar atmosphere of the moment. She feels him shift under her, so she lifts herself just enough for him to snake out an arm and wrap it around her waist, pulling her even closer against his side.

If she hadn’t missed his embraces so much, she might be embarrassed by the pleased half-sigh, half-purr that escapes her lips. She’d missed this kind of physical comfort much more than she had cared to admit.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” she says against his neck.

“You okay?” Fitz whispers back, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the outline of her ribs.

Trying—and failing—not to be affected by his touch, Simmons can’t help but scoff at his words. “Am _I_ okay? Well, I’m not the one who went off to a suicide mission, am I?”

“It _wasn’t_ a suicide mission,” he argues. “I had to ge’ the job done.”

He doesn’t say it with arrogance or cockiness, which frightens her all the more. Fitz, noticing her reticence, lets out a sigh and softens his tone. “Anyway, I think you had it har—harder than me. Can you imagine me around all these woun—wounded people you had to help?”

Simmons immediately pictures an uneasy, squeamish Fitz surrounded by cat livers and blood samples, and the mental image is enough to earn him a heartfelt chuckle. “I see your point,” she admits.

Fitz remains silent for a few seconds, tentatively lifting a hand and tucking a few loose strands of hair behind Simmons’ ear. His fingers lightly graze her cheek on their way back. “I didn’t mean only today,” he murmurs without stuttering, his tone soft.

Simmons can practically feel her heart get stuck in her throat. This boy is so incredibly, amazingly kind and thoughtful and caring—and somehow, he is willing to be _hers_. If she’s sure of one thing, it’s that she doesn’t deserve him.

Very slowly, she nods against his shoulder, doing her best to fight back tears. “I think I’m getting there.” Surprisingly, she realizes that this is the most honest she’s been with him in a long time.

It feels _right_.

Fitz’s hold on her tightens. “Okay,” he replies, before craning his neck and pressing an unexpected kiss to her forehead. He hesitates a moment. “You know I’m—I’m here for you, right?”

Another thing she’s sure of? She loves him.

“I do, Fitz,” she says gratefully, her voice quivering. Lifting her head, she stretches carefully so she can place a tender kiss on his jaw. The stubble under her lips is unfamiliar, but nonetheless welcome. “Thank you.”

She knows he’s about to protest, to tell her that she doesn’t have to thank him, but she feels like this is part of an entirely different conversation, one they’ve been avoiding and postponing and that needs to happen—but not tonight.

Tonight, she just wants to sleep beside the most important person in her life, to hear his heart beat alongside hers and feel his hands on her skin. She’s too tired to actually vocalize the emotions that have been swirling in her head for the past few weeks anyway.

So she settles on something that is not exactly what she wants to say, but that somehow _is_.

“You’re my best friend.”

She’s not sure how Fitz will react to that, but when his arms wrap more securely around her, she knows her gamble has paid off. After a few seconds, his fingers start drawing random patterns on her back, lulling her to sleep.

“You’re my bes’ friend, too.”

There’s a steady ache in her chest now, which increases slightly as Fitz drops a gentle kiss in her hair before tucking her head under his chin. She’d give anything to freeze this moment and live in it forever.

“Go to sleep, baby girl,” Fitz soothes. “I got you.”

For the first time in weeks, the nightmares stay at bay.

 

* * *

 

  **2.**  

When she opens the bathroom door four days later, Simmons is expecting anything but this—Fitz, standing in front of the sink with a can of shaving cream in one hand and a razor in the other, strikingly resembling a deer caught in the headlights. 

“Can’t you knock?” he screeches in a high-pitched voice while trying to appear indignant, vainly attempting to conceal the razor behind his back.

“What are you doing?” she asks inquisitively, her eyes narrowing.

Lowering his head, Fitz lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Nothin’.” A defeated expression on his face, he unceremoniously drops the items he’s holding on the sink’s edge. “It doesn’t matter.”

He begins to shuffle towards the door, but Simmons stands her ground. “ _Fitz_.”

Still avoiding her gaze, Fitz has the grace to at least look like a kicked puppy. “Look, I just…” His breath catches in his throat. “Every week, I come here and check if—if my hands are steady en—enough to shave.”

His eyes briefly lift upward to meet hers, and Simmons realizes she’s not quick enough to erase the sympathy from her face. Predictably, Fitz immediately looks upset.

“No, please— _don’t_ ,” he grumbles. “I’m used to it now, so it’s not imp—important, okay?”

She does her best to conceal how suddenly overwhelmed she is—she really does—but it’s just impossible. The thought of Fitz, standing there in front of the mirror every week for the past six months or so, unable to perform something as _trivial_ as a shave, but nonetheless attempting to do it over and over again—it breaks her heart.

‘ _Not important_ ’? God, she’d laugh if she weren’t so close to tears.

“Hum…” she mumbles while trying to compose herself. “I—I…”

She can feel it, the self-hatred, coming at her with the strength of a thousand hurricanes. It had been her faithful companion during her weeks spent at HYDRA, constantly lurking around the recesses of her mind, and she had been foolish to think that it would just go away willingly. She will never be freed from it.

“Fitz, I’m sorry, I—”

And finally, it’s all too much. She just can’t pretend, not anymore.

Not with Fitz.

The tears start running down her cheeks, unwanted and unwelcomed, and she pivots towards the door before she truly looses it. Fitz does not deserve that. The last thing he needs is her crumbling down on him when he’s the only one damaged—by her fault.

She just _has_ to get out of here.

 

* * *

 

He won’t let her. 

It’s amazing how fast Fitz went from flustered to worried, all traces of his previous irritation disappearing the moment Simmons’ eyes well up with tears. He had been surprised by her barging in the bathroom, but upsetting her had clearly not been his intention. 

_What a jerk I am_ , he thinks grudgingly.

Simmons already has her hand on the doorknob, but there’s just no way he will let her go in her distraught state.

“Jemma, _wait_ —” Fitz calls, catching her wrist.

She stops, which he guesses is a good sign, but she refuses to turn towards him as he tugs at her arm.

“ _Please_ , Jemma,” he implores in a low voice.

He’s such an idiot, whining about his minor issues while she’s trying to bear the weight of the world on her frail shoulders. He knows exactly what she’s thinking—that it’s all her fault, that she is somehow responsible for every bad thing that has happened to any of them.

Bitterly, he pushes back the idea that maybe all of this could have been avoided if he had worked harder on getting better. Perhaps then he wouldn’t be dragging her down.

A sob escapes Simmons’ lips, shaking Fitz out of his torpor. He’s pretty sure nothing he can say will make any sense to her right now, so he settles for what he _knows_ will help. Letting go of her wrist, he carefully places his fingers on her shoulder, his thumb lightly rubbing her skin back and forth.

Gradually, the tremors in Simmons’ body lessen under Fitz’s touch, and after a few minutes he gains enough confidence to try and turn her around, applying the slightest pressure on her shoulder. She lets him spin her, her head still hanging down.

“Jemma,” Fitz breathes, extending his other arm towards her but giving her the comfort of being the one to decide. “C’mere?”

Simmons sniffles loudly before finally, _finally_ looking up at him and meeting his eyes. The distress he can see in hers is killing him, and he has to restrain himself from immediately drawing her against him. Instead, he tries to silently communicate to her how much she matters, how much she is loved, how much he _cares_.

He isn’t sure if she can actually see all of this in his gaze, but it works. A second later, she all but collapses in his arms, allowing him to press her body to his for the third time in a week.

It still feels so, _so_ unusual after months of her being gone, weeks of him being passive-aggressive, and a year of them missing each other from afar, that Fitz can’t quite wrap his mind about the fact that he initiated the gesture, and more importantly that she _let_ him.

He would gladly, oh so gladly stay with her like that for hours, soaking in the long-lost feeling of the two of them wrapped around each other. But he can still picture the tears tracking down her cheeks, and there’s nothing he can do to get them out of his head.

Things need to be said—very important things that they’ve been delaying for far too long.

This is not a time for an extensive, deep analysis of the myriads of hitches plaguing their relationship, though. They’re both exhausted, still on edge from everything that happened in the past week—and if Fitz is perfectly honest, it feels far too good to _finally_ have Simmons all for himself. He’d be damned before he says anything that would ruin the moment.

So he sorts all the negative from the positive, storing up the former somewhere in his mind for some other time and focusing on the latter—the care, the elation, the pride, the affection, the _warmth_. All the things he wants to pass onto her.

Fitz allows his hands to trace random patterns on her lower back for a few more seconds before settling them on each side of her waist, slowly pulling back. Simmons’ arms reflexively tighten around his neck, and it’s all Fitz can do not to give in and press her back to him.

_Silly Jemma_ , he thinks. _Like I would ever let you go._

Instead, Fitz moves back just enough to lightly rest his forehead against hers, his eyes fluttering close at the contact. His throat is suddenly constricting under an unexpected wave of emotions, so when he tries to say her name, it comes out as rasped and husky. When she doesn’t give him any acknowledgment that she heard him, Fitz tries again.

“Jemma.”

No answer. Fitz opens his eyes, searching her and taking in the way she’s biting her lip. “Jemma,” he breathes for the third time, concern in his voice.

She still won’t look at him, but she’s not pulling back either. Her forehead remains pressed against his, and he would almost abort his attempts to talk to her if it weren’t for the nearly imperceptible quivers of her frame against his body.

“ _Jemma_.” Removing his forehead from hers, he bends down in a fruitless attempt to catch her gaze before continuing. “None of this is your faul’, okay?” Fitz whispers in the small space between them.

She’s still not meeting his eyes, and right here and now, he decides he’s having none of it. He’s tired of observing her from afar, tired of watching her slowly wither away as she faces everything alone, tired of hiding how much he misses and needs and wants and loves her.

So he goes on.

“Wha’ happened to Skye, an—and to Trip.” Pause. “Wha’ happened to Bobbi and Coulson and—” Another pause. Deep breath. _Don’t be a coward._ _Say it_. “And wha’ happened to _me_ ,” he manages to utter. “You did nothin’… wr—wrong. Is not your f—faul’.”

The last bit catches her attention, her tears-filled eyes shooting up.

“But it _is_ ,” she mutters painfully.

“No, it’s _not_ ,” Fitz protests. “You don’t have control over _everythin’_ , Jemma!”

She’s watching him like he’s speaking a foreign language. “Fitz, you of all people—” she starts before promptly shutting her mouth. Blinking twice, she takes a deep breath and starts over. “ _I_ was the one who made you join the team—”

“—You didn’t _force_ me to do anythin’—”

“— _I_ was the one to put you in danger—”

“—I _chose_ to follow you—”

“— _I_ did this to you, Fitz!”

His jaw goes slack from the surprise as her eyes widen. He was suspecting it all along, but hearing it directly from her hurts more than he had anticipated. Trying to shove his resentment aside, Fitz moves his hands from Simmons’ waist to each side of her face, gently cradling her cheeks.

“Jemma,” he says in a tone as convincing as he can pull out. “I really need you to li—listen to wha’ I’m gonna say.”

Her eyes are boring into his, expectant, which gives him the nudge he needs. He’s rubbish at deep conversations, but he’s been prepared to have this one in particular for weeks.

“ _Ward_ did this to me. To _us_ ,” he corrects. “He betrayed us, and he’s the only one to blame. Okay?”

Simmons doesn’t answer but doesn’t object either, which to Fitz is a small victory.

“An’ I decided t—to join this team willingly,” he continues. “You _didn’t_ make me, Jemma.”

Simmons’ eyes search his, her brow furrowed. “But don’t you regret it?” she asks in a small voice.

“Do you?” Fitz retorts without thinking, immediately biting his lip for his stupidity.

Simmons looks slightly distressed, avoiding his gaze but somehow still brave enough to tell him the truth. “Sometimes,” she supplies weakly, and Fitz’s heart squeezes in his chest even though he understands where she’s coming from.

“Well, I don’t,” he affirms, more than a little surprised as he realizes it’s true. Watching the amazing, incredible, _formidable_ woman in front of him, he knows that nothing has ever been truer. “An’ I woul’ do it all over again if I was given th—the choice.”

Something shifts in Simmons’ face, but Fitz isn’t sure what exactly. However, when she locks eyes with him again, he can tell that he said just what she needed to hear. They stare at each other for a few more moments before Simmons shifts on her feet.

“Thank you,” she says while offering him a radiant smile.

Fitz delicately wipes the remnants of her tears away, beaming back at her. “Anytime,” he replies before softly pressing a kiss against her forehead. 

 

* * *

 

The day after, Simmons is sitting on top of the counter next to the sink, Fitz standing between her legs. His palms lay flat against the countertop on either side of Simmons, the inside of his wrists barely grazing her outer thighs. She has one hand resting on his chest to steady them both, while the other cautiously glides the razor over his left cheek. 

She will probably mourn the loss of Fitz’s attractive stubble later, but she understands his need of a fresh start after all that has happened. The scruff will grow back anyway, and she’s confident she’ll find a way to convince him to keep it.

Trying to shake off any inappropriate thoughts while she’s handling a sharp blade against her best friend’s throat, she concentrates on her task, applying herself to do a perfect job. Despite her best efforts, she soon finds that it’s impossible for her to remain emotionally detached when she’s peering so intently at Fitz’s face, his stunning azure eyes never leaving hers.

Impossibly, this feels more intimate than any of their previous touches, somehow outshining any cheek kissing or handholding. There’s a warmth spreading low in her belly, but she finds it’s not an unpleasant one.

As much as she tries to draw things out, there’s not much she can do to delay once Fitz’s cheeks are smooth and cleaned from any residual shaving cream. Admiring her work with the clinical attention of a very professional doctor— _liar, liar_ —, she gets her hands off of Fitz far too soon for her liking.

So when he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, thanking her earnestly with a bright smile, she can’t help but draw him close to her so she can deposit a small kiss on his cheekbone. It feels different without the scruff, like a flitting memory of happier times, but it’s okay.

She has become quite fond of the present time anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! I just needed to post this fic as I suspect the upcoming mid-season 3 finale will slay us. Ugh. Also, this story is based on an old headcanon that Fitz's scruff is partly due to the fact that his hands aren't steady enough for him to shave his face. Poor boy.
> 
> As usual, a big shout-out to Faith, who once again agreed to beta this fic so it wouldn't turn out to be a complete mess! If you love Everlark, you should definitely follow her on Tumblr (the-peeta-pocket).


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